


Cardinal

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5850703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn’s first time comes rather unexpectedly and abrupt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cardinal

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Gimme all the stories about him losing his virginity. Canon female characters, canon male characters, ofcs, omcs, three-or-moresomes, anything you want, I just want fics about him losing his virginity.” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=6453008#t6453008).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thranduil’s power in Imladris isn’t absolute, but it still makes Aragorn hesitate on his way there. He can only imagine one reason why the visiting king might summon him, and that’s to scold him: he spent much of dinner trying to capture Legolas’ attention. Unfortunately, platonic interest is all it seemed to gain him. His only solace is that it might now relieve him of Thranduil’s wrath.

He finds, to only mild surprise, two guards outside the guest quarters that Thranduil’s been given. Neither of them spares him a second look. Neither of them announces him, so he moves himself to knock on Thranduil’s doors. Only a few seconds later, they’re drawn open by a servant carrying an empty wine bottle, who quickly half-bows to Aragorn and moves out to the corridor. Through the opened doors, Thranduil’s deep voice calls, “Ah, Estel. Come.” So Aragorn, with a sharp intake of breath, does.

The quarters inside are dark, the curtains to the balcony drawn and the only lighting from a low fire and the candles littering the room. It’s darker in the Woodland Realm, he knows, and though it’s late enough, Imladris is still bright under the glow of stars. Aragorn shuts the door behind himself—if he’s going to be berated, he won’t have the guards bear witness—and steps properly inside.

Thranduil stands by the fire, lit golden on one side by it, a glass of red wine held in one hand. His crown has been retired, but he looks just as regal without it, done up in elegant silver robes and a crimson shawl draped over his arms. His white-blond hair cascades over his back, a few stray strands slipping down his shoulders. He looks almost ethereal, stunningly beautiful: as brilliant now as the first time Aragorn saw him, back when Aragorn was very small and could hardly comprehend such art. He still remembers that awe. In many ways, Thranduil still garners it, but Aragorn’s perspective of the world has changed.

He steels himself for defense. Thranduil doesn’t look over at him yet, just eyes the dancing flames in the hearth and asks, “How old are you, again?”

A little startled by the question, Aragorn answers, “Thirty.” Thranduil glances his way, expression blank, and Aragorn adds for an immortal’s benefit, “A dozen years into adulthood for my kind.” Thranduil nods.

He takes a sip, swirls the remainder of the drink idly about his glass, and queries, “And you still have not experienced sex?” 

Aragorn’s jaw nearly unhinges in its rush to hit the floor. He stares in utter shock, while Thranduil turns to stroll closer, one long, slow step at a time. Aragorn doesn’t have the words to answer. A hint of amusement crosses Thranduil’s eyes, and he explains, “I overheard you speaking with my son tonight. I thought it very strange for such a handsome creature to remain utterly alone.”

Aragorn can feel his cheeks heating. He suddenly wishes he’d shaved this morning and made more of an effort to comb his hair, to look even remotely worthy of being in this beauty’s presence. He finally mutters, “Thank you.” It’s wildly flattering, coming from Thranduil.

Thranduil takes another sip, his gaze steady on Aragorn over the brim of his glass. When it lowers, he drawls, “Are you uninterested in that sort of thing, or have you simply not been made a tempting enough offer?”

After opening his mouth again, Aragorn immediately closes it. The question is odd—Thranduil’s tone makes it feels distinctly like he’s being _solicited_ , but that _can’t_ be it. He doesn’t know what to say and winds up carefully wording, “I am sorry, I... think I must misunderstand.”

Thranduil’s lips twist into a devastating smirk, and he answers knowingly, “I do not think so.” Aragorn can’t believe his ears. 

A final sip, and Thranduil steps nearer to place his glass on a side table, his body now only a meter from Aragorn’s. Freed, Thranduil’s right hand lifts for Aragorn’s cheek. Aragorn doesn’t recoil, doesn’t even think of it. Thranduil’s long fingers slip along his skin and back into the mess of his dark hair, silk-soft palm coming to rest against his chin. Aragorn’s entire body-temperature seems to spike, his trousers growing tighter already. Thranduil takes that last step, close enough now that the toes of their boots brush. Eyes tracing Aragorn’s mouth, Thranduil purrs, “I wanted to extend Elrond some return for the lovely hospitality, but of course, he is too stubborn to accept gifts. ...Pleasuring his ward might be a good compromise, do you not agree?” Aragorn means to answer, but Thranduil’s thumb gently stroking his cheek halts him, makes him shiver instead, and Thranduil goes on, “Unlike my western kin, those of the Woodland Realm are not too reserved to enjoy life’s base delights.” 

In all Aragorn’s time hoping to flirt with Legolas, he’d never considered this, but faced with the prospect, a few more centuries of experience and their differing world views don’t seem to make a difference. Thranduil is right here, offering, the most handsome being Aragorn has ever beheld. It’s been difficult in Imladris, where there are few residents, all close-knit, and most Aragorn’s known since he was a child, making them more family than romantic option. But Thranduil... Thranduil is an exotic _dream_.

And Aragorn, for all their differences, couldn’t possibly pass up this opportunity. It might’ve been difficult in his home, sleeping with someone without the commitment for _more_ , but wood elves have a different reputation, one closer to that of Men, and Aragorn has the feeling that Thranduil will be quite understanding with just one night of release.

If more nights follow, of course, on subsequent visits or Aragorn’s own trips, they’ll be equally as welcome. Aragorn tilts into Thranduil’s palm and says, “I accept.”

Thranduil’s grin says that he wouldn’t have expected any less. He drops his hand from Aragorn, returning to the glass of wine, and the other hand reaches out for Aragorn’s. Aragorn clasps it back and lets himself be tugged further into the room, over to the large bed that resides against the far wall, squarely in the center, under an elaborate carving of three interwoven trees. At its side, they stop. 

Thranduil takes another sweep of Aragorn’s body, then asks in a husky, too-alluring voice, “Now, would you like to keep your clothes on for your first time, or would you permit me to enjoy the sight of your bare skin?”

Aragorn lets out a shaken, humourless laugh. A few years ago, he might’ve wished to keep his clothes on, but a ranger has little use for modesty, and though he’s nothing to Thranduil’s beauty, he knows he’s conventionally blessed with his looks. He says, “I would not mind,” and reaches for the tie of his tunic.

Thranduil darts out instead, and before Aragorn has time to think, the top’s open. Thranduil takes hold of the neckline, and then he’s abruptly yanking the fabric right over Aragorn’s head—Aragorn has to bend forward and lift his arms to allow it. Thranduil tosses the discarded tunic aimlessly aside, steps so close that their noses are nearly touching, and unties Aragorn’s trousers just as fast. His eyes stay fixed on Aragorn’s, Aragorn’s breath caught in his throat. Without bothering to look, Thranduil pushes the trousers right down Aragorn’s hips. Then he loops his arm around Aragorn’s bare waist and uses it to force Aragorn forward a step, right out of the puddle of his clothes. He steps out of his sandals on the way. Thranduil takes two steps back, crossing one arm over his chest while the other lifts his glass, and he takes a long sip of wine.

His eyes never stop raking Aragorn’s body. Aragorn stands still, completely exposed, arms lax at his sides. It’s warm enough in the room, but it’s more embarrassing than he expected, being so efficiently undressed. He tries his best to stand tall and resist the urge to cross his legs or place a hand over his bits. He’s equally as tempted to divest Thranduil of his robes, but Aragorn wouldn’t dare. Not on his first time with a king, anyway. He knew at his acceptance that they would likely play by Thranduil’s rules. 

Thranduil takes a few torturous seconds to admire the view, then purrs, “How impressive.” His easy smirk makes Aragorn’s cock twitch. He’s already half hard, and the praise excites him more than he could explain. He knows he’s broader and harrier than most elves, but Thranduil doesn’t seem to mind. A last sip, and Thranduil turns to place his glass on the nightstand. He plucks a small vile up instead, then climbs onto the tell bed, indenting the ruby quilt.

Thranduil settles down against the headboard, lounging in the pillows with a naturally luxurious quality, looking like something out of a painting, and a rare, treasured one, at that. He beckons Aragorn closer with the wave of one hand. Aragorn hurries to obey, and for all his usual grace, he feels clumsy in comparison, in his lust and haste. He crawls across to sit at Thranduil’s side, only to be guided across Thranduil’s lap. Thranduil splays one hand over either of Aragorn’s thighs, spreading them wide around Thranduil’s body, fingers spread to trace up his skin, thumbs stopping just short of the thick, dark hair matted between. Somehow, Aragorn would’ve expected more foreplay—more build, more subtlety. But then, King Thranduil must have had thousands of suitors in his time, and Aragorn clearly doesn’t need convincing. 

Uncorking the bottle and pouring a small pool of what looks like oil into his palm, Thranduil asks, “Tell me, Estel. Have you fingered yourself?”

The second Aragorn’s cheeks stain, he feels foolish for it. He’s touched himself, of course, but not in the back, and he admits, “I have not.” Thranduil’s grin quirks. He recaps the bottle and bends to set it back on the nightstand. 

His dry hand gives Aragorn’s rear a short pat—Aragorn startles and lifts up on his knees. Thranduil’s wet hand disappears beneath him, wrist brushing the tip of his bobbing shaft. While the first hand takes hold of Aragorn’s ass from above, fingers slipping into his crack to pry it open, the second set rubs between. To have anyone touch him there feels a little _strange_ , made more so by the cool liquid Thranduil presses into his sensitive skin. Tracing idly between his cheeks, Thranduil muses, “A pity. This may not be easy for you, as I am sure you have heard, but I imagine you will find it quite worth it by the end. And you may, of course, stop me at any time.” 

Aragorn doesn’t think there’s even a remote possibility of wanting to cease sex with Thranduil, but he understands the rest and nods. He’s certainly heard his fair share of sexual talk. The next time he’s sitting around a campfire with Elladan and Elrohir, he’ll have quite the tale to tell. 

It still gives him a short shock when the blunt tip of Thranduil’s finger pops suddenly inside him. He can feel the liquid easing the way, but it stings in an odd way, the bigger problem simply how _uncomfortable_ it feels. He grits his teeth and tenses, even knowing he shouldn’t, and Thranduil makes a soothing noise and rubs gently at his inner walls, remaining only shallowly inside. When Thranduil pushes a little deeper, it’s only to pull back again, then a little farther. He works his way gradually inside like this, his eyes fixed on Aragorn’s. He asks, “What are you waiting for? Clearly, you want a kiss.”

Aragorn did want that and realizes belatedly that he’s been alternatively watching Thranduil’s eyes and lips. He licks his own, then tilts forward, hesitating halfway. Thranduil seems to have made it all the way to the knuckle and pauses to squirm about, tilting at different angles. He keeps _rubbing_ , and some spots sting, but then he taps something that sends a surge of lightening up Aragorn’s spine, and he gasps in sheer _pleasure_.

Thranduil does it again and closes the gap between them, mouth meeting Aragorn’s. The kiss is warm, soft, and intensifies the second Thranduil’s tongue traces Aragorn’s lips; he opens right up. Thranduil’s tongue dives inside, wracking a moan out of Aragorn while the first finger recedes.

A second joins it, small at first, easing in the same way, but Aragorn doesn’t tense for it again; Thranduil’s mouth keeps him distracted. Thranduil’s tongue traces about his mouth, looping in broad circles he tries to follow, then lapping at his own tongue, then pressing back as though fighting him, and Aragorn pushes forward. Not knowing what to do with his hands but needing to _touch_ , he reaches out to brace himself against Thranduil’s shoulders. His fingers tighten in the fabric—he wants to rip it away—he wants to ask for Thranduil to strip—but he doesn’t dare, and his mouth is full. He’s thoroughly kissed while Thranduil’s fingers gently scissor him open, occasionally brushing the perfect spot that masks all the pain and discomfort with sharp jolts of delight. By the time a third finger’s entered him, Aragorn’s too thoroughly lost in Thranduil’s mouth to feel anything but _good_. Thranduil strokes him, stretches him, long and proper. His fingers leave Aragorn’s body at the same time Thranduil’s tongue does, and Aragorn nearly growls at the loss. 

Thranduil’s hands recede to part his robes at the bottom, splitting them over his waist and reaching into the tights underneath. Aragorn’s mesmerized at the sight that follows: Thranduil drawing out his thick shaft, long and slightly curved, dusted lightly with veins and pink at the veiled tip, larger than Aragorn’s, than any he’s yet seen. His first thought is that it won’t fit in him, the second that he _wants it to_ , and now he’s grateful for how long and well he was fingered. Holding his cock in one hand, Thranduil pats Aragorn’s hip again. He hurriedly lifts up, pulls closer, arms slipping to wrap around Thranduil’s neck. Thranduil guides himself between Aragorn’s legs, his velvet voice drawling, “You are very eager for this, Estel.”

Aragorn breathes, “You have no idea.” It earns him a short chuckle, and then he can feel the head of Thranduil’s cock against his hole. He tries to will himself to relax and looks buck up to Thranduil’s face, where he’s guided into another kiss.

He’s breached suddenly, but only by a fraction, and his gasp is swallowed away in Thranduil’s mouth. It’s the same as with Thranduil’s finger—he eases gently in, then pulls back out, the lubrication coating Aragorn’s walls much needed. It feels even odder than the fingers did, but he tries to hold himself open, tries not to tense up, tries to pour his mind into _this_ , the gorgeous man that’s going to fuck him, to keep aroused. It isn’t difficult. His hard cock nudges at Thranduil’s stomach. If Aragorn had any less control, he’d buck into it or touch himself. Instead, he lets Thranduil lead. He’s already afraid he’ll come horribly fast, and he doesn’t want to aid that. In a way, he’s glad this has come somewhat later in his life, when he has some semblance of self-confidence and control. He pours himself into Thranduil’s kisses, each one more intoxicating than the last, and not just for the alcoholic tinge to Thranduil’s taste. By the time Thranduil’s fully sheathed and stills, Aragorn’s shaking. 

Thranduil parts their mouths, forcing Aragorn’s eyes to open and take in the pleased look on Thranduil’s chiseled features. He notes, “You are tight. Delightful.” Aragorn blushes all the harder, even more so when Thranduil lifts a hand to brush a strand of wavy hair out of Aragorn’s eyes. 

Thranduil’s hands both fall to Aragorn’s hips, fingers digging into his skin, and then Thranduil bucks up so hard that Aragorn cries out, a tiny bit from pain and mostly from shock. Thranduil switches angles, does it again, and Aragorn’s bounced right up, sliding halfway off Thranduil’s cock and clinging tighter to Thranduil’s shoulders. Another, and then another, and then Thranduil rams right into something that makes Aragorn _scream_. Pleasure courses through him, exquisite, wondrous joy that drowns out the rest. Thranduil thrusts into him in the same place right after and rolls right into a hard, steady pace of jamming into Aragorn ass.

He hisses suddenly, “Fuck yourself on my cock.” Aragorn’s eyes dart up, heavy-lidded, his mouth caught open in his effort to breath. His body feels like it’s on fire, head clouded, but he listens, nods and tries to comply—he braces himself and lifts up, only to throw himself down and land all the harder. He cries out again, only to repeat it as fast as he can. Thranduil’s hips still, letting Aragorn do the work, except on the thrusts where Aragorn botches the angle and Thranduil has to reset it. Aragorn fucks himself mercilessly per Thranduil’s pace. He’d go harder if he could, if he had the wherewithal or the strength—suddenly the stretch, the burn of it feels _so good_ , and Thranduil’s so handsome, even perfect as he is, fully dressed without a hair out of place, features pleasant but no more, while Aragorn overheats and sweats and pants like a dog. He would’ve never pictured his first time like this. He doesn’t care. It feels so, so amazing, and he almost resents Thranduil for waiting so long. 

He fucks himself right into oblivion, aware he’s building too fast but powerless to stop it. He feels panic at it—he wants this to _last_ —but more so, he’s harder than he’s ever been and leaking against Thranduil’s silken robes, his fingers fisting in Thranduil’s hair and clothes. He can barely hold a coherent thought. His stomach clenches. His balls tighten. He _roars_ at the top of his longs, and he comes all over Thranduil’s stomach, cock bursting one sticky jet after another.

He rides Thranduil right through it, but slows, then stops all together, panting for air wildly spent. It takes a few shaky minutes to come down, the fire under his skin ebbing into a clamminess over the sweat. Suddenly, the cock inside him is uncomfortable again, and he lifts up on trembling knees, letting it slip out of him, dragging lube with it.

Only when he sits back in Thranduil’s lap, immediately rising again at the sharp pain it brings his rear—does he realize how shamefully fast he came. His hole feels unnaturally wide and slick and vaguely unpleasant. He made a mess of a king’s robes. He normally carries himself with confidence, but now he doesn’t know what to say. 

Thranduil speaks first. “Well, now that you have had your first—and a most satisfactory one, at that, I presume—would you care to stay the night and enjoy the next few?”

Aragorn flushes a bright red, dazed over the sheer idea of _more_. He knows Thranduil hasn’t come yet. He doesn’t think he could come again for a long while. But of course he wouldn’t leave Thranduil’s bed if he doesn’t have to. Finally, he manages the words to say, “I would be a poor host not to look after you.” Thranduil laughs at the thin excuse but seems to accept it. 

He reaches first for the nightstand to drink what’s left of his wine, then gives Aragorn’s cock an idle stroke of his hand. To Aragorn’s utter shock, it responds, the haze coming back to him. He leans subconsciously forward into Thranduil’s hand, but Thranduil only gives it one more stroke before ordering, “You should remain hydrated—please tell the guards to bring water. ...And a fresh bottle of wine.” Aragorn can’t do anything but nod.

He slips off the bed with another wince and walks for the door to peek his head through, ordering supplies for the long night ahead.


End file.
